I hadn't planned on sitting down at my typewriter.
When I walked into my office, I set down my coffee like I was about to sit at my computer, but then just... didn't? Granted, I was a bit foggy this morning but I guess I just started following my feet across the floor and onto the rug before coming to a stop in front of the typing desk below the window. After a brief pause, my feet scuttled to the side and suddenly I was sidling onto my seat.
Weird.
But also, nice?
My fingers drummed on the protective mat atop the desk. Glancing up, I saw dogs romping on the otherwise empty soccer field across the street—gray skies be damned. Their owners lagged about among them. I couldn't quite make out their faces... just the bright colors of their puffy jackets. From this distance, each looked to be missing an arm, though. I'm willing to bet a lot of money that it's because they all had one of their hands occupied with holding a mug or thermos in front of them.
Without thinking, I stacked a blank sheet on top of my backing paper with the guidelines on it. I lifted the paper bail, loaded the stack, and cranked the platen knobs until the blank page popped into view.
Then I slid the carriage to the side and just... started typing.
I still don't know what it is about typewriters that pulls me out of a fog and into focus, but I'm not too concerned with figuring it out, either.
I just know that I love it.
When you find yourself on autopilot, where do you go? How do you get back?
onward.
For more on this daily column and The MAP Year Project, read the backstory here. And if you know someone who'd appreciate this, pass it along.